


From 'A' To 'B'- To See

by HarveyWallbanger



Series: A Letter In Your Writing Doesn't Mean You're Not Dead [5]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Drinking, Experimental Style, F/F, Gen, M/M, Magic and Science, middle aged dudes- doing it, trigger warning: emetophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 07:03:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1679141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all true.  Not a word of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From 'A' To 'B'- To See

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a 'choose your own adventure' style story, but the formatting was a nightmare, so I present it to you as a sprawling hypergraphic fantasia. What part of the story is the 'real' part of the story? I don't know, man- I just wrote the thing. The title is an adaptation of a line from the Jesus and Mary Chain song, The Hardest Walk. I am not involved in the production of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and this school is not involved in the production of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

1.

Less for his sense of propriety than for hers, he pulls the sheets up a little further. The last thing she wants to see, he's sure, is his soft, pale flesh. Evoking the butcher shop and its spectral rubber glove chickens, rosy ecorches of rabbits, piglets like purses hanging open and emptied of contents. Going a step further and buttoning up his shirt would just draw attention to the naked skin under it. He rests his hands atop the sheets. He's nice and cozy, now.  
“Well, what do you want from me, now?”  
Ask somebody a direct question, and they lose all concept of language. Why is that?  
“I- I don't know,” Tara says, and looks down.  
“Not another spell, I'm sure.”  
Flinching as though he'd struck her, “No. No. Not that.”  
He shrugs, gives her a consoling smile. “I'm not very good for much else.”  
“I don't think that's true.”  
He laughs. “That's very sweet of you to say, my dear, but you really aren't qualified to make that assertion. You don't really know me, you see.”  
She sits down on the edge of the bed, close enough to prove the intimacy she assumes but far enough away not to impose. “I think I do. More than you think. You did things for me. Things other people wouldn't have done. Maybe you don't care if you hurt people to get what you want, but that's not all there is to you.”  
“That's touching. That really is.” He sighs, moves a bit and disarrays his clothes, lets a flash of sternum show. Her punishment. For thinking that, to spite it all, he's really a nice man. He pouts. “All right. Tell me whatever it is you want to tell me, and if I can help, and it isn't going to inconvenience me too much, I will.”  
“I don't know how to explain the situation. I'm not sure I understand it completely, myself. There was a spell. A big one. Like, so big, I can't even imagine how it was cast. Somebody... altered reality, retroactively, and made us believe something that wasn't true. I only found evidence of it by accident, when I went into a trance to break your spell.”  
“Ah.”  
“You know about those kinds of spells, right? You know how somebody could do that?”  
“Not as much as you might think, I'm afraid. My interests have always been wide-ranging but shallow. I learn what I can, but I stick with what I'm good at. And what you're describing, that sounds deep. Somebody would have to have immense knowledge, nevermind power, to do something like that.”  
“Who could it be?”  
“Your guess is as good as mine. I'm a stranger here; I don't know anybody but you and Willow and Ripper. And please don't take this as an insult, but none of you are at anywhere near that level.”  
“No, that's fair.”  
He takes a breath, regards the ceiling for a moment. “It would be somebody who's devoted their life to their practice. With that kind of devotion comes discipline. They live their magic; you won't find them hanging around supermarkets, or parking cars for a living. Are you going to tell me the nature of the spell, or do you not trust me with the information?”

_Of course she trusts him_

“It's-” she looks down, she sighs, “It's Buffy's sister.”  
“I think I would have remembered Buffy having a sister.”  
“No one remembers her. Except for me. I don't know why. When I was in the trance, I was focusing on something that didn't belong, a- a piece that didn't fit. Before I found your spell, the paradox you created around Giles' death, I found her. I found Dawn- that's her name- and I found out that she wasn't real. She was- I don't know what she was- she was, like, energy. Someone had created this whole reality around her.”  
“That's interesting.”  
“It didn't make sense to me. It doesn't make sense to me. What I wonder, though, is whether or not the spell will take effect again. When could it have been cast, originally?”  
“What's today?”  
“Um, July twentieth.”  
“When are your earliest memories of her?”  
“That's the thing- I don't remember not remembering her. There wasn't a time when I didn't know she existed. I mean, I knew who she was as long as I knew Buffy, because she was Willow's friend- I just don't know.”  
“Do you want to know?”  
She blinks. “What do you mean?”  
“I mean, do you want to know why she was here- or may be here again? This is something big. Big things are usually the kinds of things you're better off not knowing about.”

_She wants to know- how could she not?_

She swallows, looks down, then looks up, resolute. “I need to know. It isn't just about me. It's about Buffy, too. Someone could be trying to hurt her.”  
“That's true.”  
“So, I have to know. You'll help me?”  
“As I said, to the best of my abilities, and without inconveniencing myself excessively. I would suggest doing what you did before: go into a trance, and search for evidence of the spell. Concentrate, this time, on the girl, on Dawn. If nothing else, it may lead you to the person or persons who cast the spell originally.”  
“I don't know if I'm that good.”  
He shrugs. “You won't know until you try.”

_She is just that good_

It's a secret. It feels terrible keeping secrets from Willow, but it's also easy. Because she has so much practice. It's not time to tell her, yet. When she knows something, she'll tell Willow, and Buffy. Until then, she's alone.  
Strangely, this strengthens her resolve. She grits her teeth, then takes a deep breath, and releases all of the tension in her body. She lets it go, like water slipping through spread fingers. She lets it go, and she goes.  
All over town, there's the sense of something at work. People are seeing things differently than they did before. It's like she can see the changes happening inside of their brains. She cringes. It looks like it hurts, but she's sure that it doesn't. It happened to her, and she didn't notice. Some people change a lot. Some people hardly change at all. It's happening slowly, like bone and muscle creaking with the effort of growing. But where does she go? How do you follow a river when you're in the middle of the ocean?

_She couldn't possibly be that good_

Something goes wrong. Not in a major way, but wrong enough that she spends the whole afternoon in bed with the curtains drawn. She tells Willow it's a migraine, adds that her mother used to get them, then, when Willow's gone, she wonders if it was too much. Will Willow suspect something, now? She has to tell her. She can't do this on her own.

_No, she doesn't want to know_

“Maybe I shouldn't do anything. I could make it worse.”  
“That's always a risk.”  
“I think I should wait, to see if the spell takes effect again. I'll know what to look for, and once I know more, I'll have a better idea of what to do.”  
“Your prudence is admirable.”  
“Can I stay here? For a little while. I'm still, I'm still trying to process this, and I can't tell Willow yet. I need her help, too, but I don't know how to explain it to her.”  
“If you don't mind the squalor and the dishabille.”  
She shakes her head. “It's not so bad, here.”  
“No, there are worse places. I keep coming back here for sentimental reasons,” he makes a gesture to elaborate, then actually elaborates: “This was where I stayed all those times in the past. When all I had to do was worry about Ripper or his charge breaking my nose, and life was altogether simpler.”  
“You love him.” As soon as she says it, her mouth claps shut and she flushes down to the collar of her shirt. “I'm sorry.”

_Yes_

“You're an adult; I'm sure you understand that love can be complicated. It's not a matter of simply loving somebody, and having that be the solution to all of life's problems. Love can make you a better person, I'm sure, but it can also make you worse than you ever imagined. It can also leave you unchanged. I was more or less a complete person when I met him, very much the same as I am today. The only difference was that he didn't yet hate that person. He hadn't found a reason to. I suppose he loved me, as well. Until he didn't.”  
He's going to hate himself once he sobers up. Unless he makes sure he doesn't remember it. There's something to consider.

_No_

“Well, I wouldn't say that. There was a certain sympathy between us, but I wouldn't say it was love. Lust, perhaps, for a while- I'm not shocking you, am I?- good- and it's easy to mistake that for love, because it can feel the way you think love is supposed to feel. It was a time in my life I was in love with. I was very much in love with everything, and also angry at, enraged by it in the way only a young person can be, and I- Would you like a drink? No? More for me.”

_She doesn't trust him- how could she?_

She looks down. “No.”  
“Thank you. People are rarely honest about that kind of thing. No. You wouldn't. I don't blame you, you know.”  
“I'm glad you understand.”  
“I'm morally-dubious; not judgmental. Well, what I would suggest is what you did earlier. Or later. Or in another time. You know what I mean.”  
“Yeah, I know. The trance.”  
“Yes. Only, this time, you must concentrate only on this spell. You probably only stumbled upon it because you weren't specific- you would have found evidence of any spell to alter reality.”  
“Okay.”  
“Well, the best of luck to you.”  
She does him the courtesy of leaving on her own, so he doesn't have to ask her to. Very considerate.

2.

He's drunk. So very drunk. Sleep failed to burn the alcohol out of him, and he's lodged firmly in the shadowed place between happily inebriated and miserably hungover. Everything is unfocused and confusing- even more so because he knows it isn't actually confusing; he's just suddenly very, very stupid.  
Somebody was here, he's sure. But who? He opens his eyes, and regrets it immediately. The air around him feels liquid, and he can't stop moving through it. It finally happened: he's become unmoored from the world. He's no longer a part of life, of reality. He's nothing. It'll soon be as though he never existed.  
No. Someone was here. He cannot possibly be this stupid. It wasn't- it wasn't the girl, was it? The girl. The girl with light brown hair and, and magic things. She likes magic things. He smiles.  
“Keen to learn,” he mutters into the duvet.  
Keen to learn. She has a girlfriend. With hair like the blazing stain of the setting sun. Very smart young ladies. Immense power. Terrifying. Thank Christ they're better people than he could ever dreamt of being.  
No. No young ladies in here. The air doesn't smell of perfume or whatever young women smell like, that non-specifically sweet scent that he'll always associate with Deirdre. Only gin. Handfuls of juniper berries smeared resinous and dark all over his face. He closes his eyes. It's like being facedown on the ground in a forest. He'll never drink gin again.  
Ripper. It had to have been Ripper. Another of his violent turns. Only, he doesn't feel as though he's been beaten. Well, he does, but it's the ache of old age and possibly alcohol poisoning, not self-righteous fists.  
He'll give him a ring. It'll be fun. Say all those things he's always meant to say. If only he could remember them.

_Forget_

There was a time. It was a sweet time. They were so sweet for each other. Of course, they were young and spiky and horrible, so it was the sweetness of alcohol with its sting or of pain and adrenaline after a fight. But to have the freedom to be horrible, and to have the horribleness embraced with all the rest. There could be nothing sweeter than that. To know that he wasn't going anywhere.  
Until he did. He left. Because the horror was too much horror. And Ripper was always, at heart, a very conventional person. If he'd just left to get married and start a family, become a banker or a grocer or a lorry driver, Ethan wouldn't have taken it so badly. Well, yes, he would have. There would have been nasty scenes in the sitting room of Ripper's semi-detached house, with the wife listening at the door and the children upstairs with their ears pressed to the floor. But letting go would have been possible, eventually, because there's only so much convention a person can take. Even the thrill of transgression ceases to be a thrill when it's all you can do.  
Ripper was conventional for his world. Which was just close enough to Ethan's world to make a complete break impossible. It's like the negative image of Ethan's life. They each chose a calling, a punishment, a horribly twisted vision of what they most wanted. Ripper to his dry, sober, chaste and industrious devotion to a cause supplanted by an institution managed by people who couldn't even touch his pure, his holy fervor. And Ethan? What did Ethan most want? Something that long ago ceased to exist. He'd had it, once. Why couldn't he have held on? But he had. Why couldn't it have held on to him?

 _Drunk dial!_

“You never gave me back my records.”  
“Who is this? Ethan? Ethan, is that you?”  
“My records. Electric Warrior. The Sparks record where they're tied up on the boat. Suzi Quatro...”  
“I'm hanging up.”  
“No. Don't. Please. Just tell me what you did with them.”  
Rupert sighs. “I don't remember. It was so long ago.”  
“It was only thirty years. Not even half our life.”  
“Please don't remind me.”  
“Why? Do you feel old? Am I making you feel old, Ripper? God, you're vain.”  
“I'm vain? I'm vain. Coming from you- I- I'm hanging up.”  
“No. No. Please. Please. Come over.”  
“What? No. I'm not coming- I don't even know where you are.”  
“I'm at the Sunnydale Arms. Room 777. I requested it especially because-”  
“Because you're pretentious and in love with your own feeble sense of humor.”  
“Sir, you wound me.”  
“Ethan-”  
“You could come over, and wound me, literally. You could. Do things to me. Nice things. If you liked. Not-nice things, if you liked.”  
“Ethan.”  
“We could talk. About anything you wanted. You could yell at me, if you liked. Just not too loud. I don't want to get thrown out.”  
“Ethan.”

_Thank you, no_

“I wouldn't tell anyone. Though, I don't know who you think I'd tell.”  
“Ethan. Even if I wanted to, you're drunk. You're- I don't know how you managed to dial my number. You sound terrible. And I can't keep doing this. I don't want to hurt you. I'll talk to you when you've sobered up.”  
He lets the dial tone sing to him until a woman's voice informs him of the correct procedure to make a phone call, then he hangs up. He's either going to cry, or he's going to vomit. Oh. It's the second one.

_Oh, go on_

Rupert sighs. It seems to go on forever. Ethan begins to fall asleep. “I'm not going to do anything to you. You're drunk.”  
“No, you are,” Ethan mumbles against the receiver.  
“That doesn't make any sense. I'm just coming over to make sure you don't accidentally die.”  
“You do care.”  
“No, I don't.”  
“Well, come soon. I'm just going to go make myself look presentable.”  
“You're a sorcerer, not a miracle-worker.”  
“You're an evil man, Ripper.”  
“Don't try my patience, Ethan.”  
“I wouldn't dream of it. Come, now.”  
Another long sigh. “Yes. I'll see you soon.” He hangs up.  
Ethan hangs up. He smiles. Oh, he's going to vomit. He jumps up, and runs to the bathroom. He doesn't make it to the toilet, but the sink is good enough. He always forgets how bad it can be. By the time he gets it all out, he's in such pain his earlier aches seem like a gentle flirtation. And someone is making a godawful noise. He turns on the water and rinses his mouth, but the noise hasn't stopped. It's coming from somewhere nearby-  
He weaves back into the main part of the room, and realizes that it's coming from the door. It can't be Ripper, already.  
“Ethan. Open the door, or I'm leaving.”  
“It is Ripper.” He smiles. “Just coming,” he calls. He means to walk across the room, but he ends up sort of launching himself. He hears the thud of his head hitting the door, but he doesn't feel it. “Bloody hell,” he hears from the other side.  
“It's just this strange latch they've got. Just give me a second.” He turns the knob, and- oh- that was easier than he thought.  
He smiles again. Even though he can't feel his face, he knows he does. “Ripper.”  
“Don't call me that.”  
“I'm sorry. Rupert. Please come in.”  
He tries to lock the door behind him, but it's difficult.  
“Let me do it,” Rupert sighs, “or we'll be here all night.” Rupert does something mysterious with the door, and then gives him a gentle sort of shove in the direction of the bed.  
He turns around. “Would you like a drink?”  
“I have to drive home.”  
“You could stay until you sobered up.”  
“All right. Yeah. But just one.”  
“Excellent.” He gives Rupert the bottle of gin.  
“I'd like a glass, if it isn't too much trouble.”  
Ethan hands him a teacup, and Rupert bubbles out some sounds of vague disapproval.  
“You can sit down, if you'd like.”  
“I was just looking for a surface that wasn't covered in laundry. Or bodily fluids.”  
“Not my fluids.”  
“No. If they were, that would actually disgust me slightly less.”  
“Because you've been fairly well-acquainted with them.”  
“Yes, thank you.” Rupert sits at the edge of the bed, and Ethan sits next to him.  
“I'm glad you came here, Ripper. Rupert.”  
“I don't know why I did.”  
“Because you care about me. You heard the need, the desperation in my voice, and you knew you had to see me.” Somehow, his hand has found its way to his left breast. As though he needed to physically hold in his heart. Lest it escape, on a train of alcohol-thinned blood, and stain his shirt. He lets his hand fall.  
“It just seems hopeless to try to escape you.”  
“Is that honesty? If it is, I appreciate it. I don't enjoy hurting you.”  
“Yes, you do.”  
“Yes, I do. You're right. I do. But this was how we used to have fun with each other. We used to needle each other. It was just what we did.”  
“It was what we did. 'Was'. I'm not the person I was. It was thirty years ago. We were children. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't do it anymore. I'm tired. I can't- I don't have it in me. I have a different life, now. I have Buffy.”  
“I'm sorry- I was falling asleep.”  
“Ethan-”  
“Not because I was bored. Because I'm drunk. I heard what you said, though. About Buffy and your new life. Why didn't you think I could be part of that?”  
Rupert's looking at him. He can't turn to meet his gaze, because if he tries, he'll just vomit again, but he feels it. He wants to turn. Wants to look into his eyes. But he can't. “You couldn't, Ethan. It just,” Rupert makes a dismissive sound, “It wasn't done, in those days. And now- would you be good? Would you behave yourself?”  
“Probably not. It would have been nice to have been asked, though.”  
“I didn't have to ask you. This is my life. I get to choose who's a part of it.”  
“And you didn't choose me.”  
“No, Ethan.”  
“All of this so you wouldn't have to explain me.”  
“In case you hadn't noticed, my life isn't exactly overflowing with women, either. I don't have those kinds of relationships anymore. My last one didn't even end badly; it just ended.”  
“Well, I haven't been seeing anybody. I wouldn't even know how to do it anymore.”  
Rupert snorts. “You- celibate?”  
“Well, no, but if it's all one-night stands, all the fucking just kind of cancels itself out, and what am I left with? I'm still all alone at the end of it.”  
“Self-pity isn't you.”  
“How do you know? How do you know I don't do self-pitying- self-pity? How do you know I don't feel sad, or lonely? How do you know I don't miss you? What did you think all of this was for? Why would I be angry at you if I didn't miss you? Why would I bother?”

_Leave_

“Ethan. I can't. I can't do this. I have to go.” Rupert puts the teacup back on the bedside table; it's almost full. As soon as Rupert's gone, Ethan drinks it all in one swallow.

_No, stay_

“I don't know. I've never understood you.”  
“I'm no great mystery. I do whatever seems like a good idea at the time.”  
“Ah, but what you think is a good idea makes no fucking sense.”  
“Oh.”  
Rupert sighs. “It did, to me, for a while, but I-”  
“You stopped being able to understand me.”  
“We just grew apart.”  
He puts his hand over his face, and lies back. “Don't say that,” Ethan groans, “You'll make me vomit again.”  
“It's true.”  
“But it's horrible. I used- you were so important to me.”

_If I go, there will be trouble_

“I know I was.”  
“I think you should leave.” He can't open his eyes. Not even to watch Rupert go.  
“Are you sure?”  
“Quite sure. Please go.”  
“I'm sorry.”  
“Just leave.”

_But if I stay, it will be double_

“You were important to me.”  
“Those were the best days of my life.”  
Rupert laughs. “Oh, Christ, don't say that. That- that is so pathetic, I- I need another drink.” He gets up.  
“Don't be cruel.”  
“I'm sorry. It was so long ago, Ethan. It was a lifetime ago. It might as well have been another planet,” he laughs as he sits down again, “It wasn't that great.”  
“It was.”  
“We were all miserable. We hated everything.”  
“You hated everything. I just knew that I could do better.”  
“Better than me?” Rupert's voice is soft, teasing.  
“Never better than you,” Ethan murmurs and smiles.  
“Did you love me?”  
“I think you mean 'do'. Do I love you.”  
“Do you?”  
“Do you want to know?”

_No_

“No. It's better if I don't.”  
“Make a clean break.”  
“No. You're entitled to your secrets. Everyone needs them.”  
“Hmm. I'm tired. I'm going to sleep. Stay with me.”  
“All right.”

_Of course I do_

“Of course I do.”  
“You always had a perverse streak. Yes. In my way. Not, perhaps, in a way that's recognizable to anyone else, but I do.”

_All this sugar is making me want to vom; please, please just let them pass out, or something_

“Go to sleep, Ethan. You're talking a lot of shit.”  
“Just make sure I don't aspirate on my vomit and die.”  
“Done.”

_I haven't had enough sugar; I have neeeeds!_

“I hope you don't expect me to make a similar declaration.” Rupert's scrubbing furiously at his glasses with the tail of his shirt. He'll mark the lenses if he isn't careful. Has he really been doing it that long, or is Ethan just feeling time differently because of the alcohol? If only one could literally manipulate time this way; not just feel as though it had dilated around one, like the pupil of an eye. A blossoming dark entrance, leading to who knows where-  
“Ethan.”  
“What?”  
“I said, I hope you don't expect me to make a similar declaration.”  
He turns his head a little so that he can see whether or not Rupert's wearing his glasses again. “Similar to what?”  
“To what you just said.”  
“What did I just- Oh, that I love you. I wouldn't dream of it. Anyway, you asked the question. You asked me, right? I didn't just start saying things?”  
“No. You're correct. I asked.”  
“Well, all right, then. I don't think I can expect anything from you, at all. I don't think I ever could.”  
“I suppose I deserve that.”  
“Maybe,” Ethan waves his hand dismissively, “But what does it matter? What does any of this really matter anymore? You have your feelings, whatever they may be, and I have mine, and never the twine- the twine?- it's 'the twain'- the twain shall meet.”  
“That isn't exactly true.”  
He raises his eyebrows. “Oh?”  
Rupert's cleaning his glasses again. They can't possibly get that dirty that quickly. Ethan sighs, and puts his hand over Rupert's. Even though the danger hasn't passed, Ethan turns to face him. But very slowly. “I don't understand your obsession with those fucking glasses. Fuss, fuss, fuss- it's constant. That was the hardest thing to get right. I knew you were doing it for a reason, but I could never figure out what the reason was. It's some sort of tic, isn't it? In the end, I had to get a new prescription, because it'd look strange if I just stopped wearing them, and I didn't think I could have fooled anybody into thinking you'd gotten contact lenses. But just stop fussing with them for a second. I'm a bit stupid right now, so you're going to have to be direct. Are you trying to tell me something?”  
“Well, I do, of course, hate you.”  
“Well, I hate you, too.”  
“It'd be impossible not to.”  
“No. I turned you into a demon.”  
“Nearly got me killed.”  
“Actually got you killed, fairly recently.”  
“I was only slightly dead.”  
“I think it still counts.”  
“All right. You endangered the lives of people I care about.”  
“True. You had me sent away to what transpired to be a very poorly-run facility, but for all you knew, they were going to take me to the desert and shoot me.”  
“I just needed you to be somebody else's problem for a while.”  
“Understandable. You killed Randall.”  
“In fact, I did, but my intentions were good.”  
“Not good.”  
Rupert sighs. “No, not entirely good, not exactly.”  
“A bit self-serving.”  
“I can't dispute that.”  
“You abandoned me and the rest of our friends, without any thought to what might happen to us.”  
“That's fair, I suppose.”  
“So, we both have ample reason to hate one another. I suppose this means that we're even. Now, a more evolved person would say that this means that we can start again, but I don't think I'm evolved, by any means. So, let's just agree that we hate each other, and go from there.”  
“All right,” Rupert says softly. Ethan can tell that he desperately wants to clean his glasses, but Ethan's hand still covers them. Ethan smiles to himself.  
“Obviously, I have feelings for you, but I'm afraid I must ask the dreaded question: do you feel anything for me other than hatred?”  
“Well, yes. I'm just not entirely sure what it is.”  
“At least you know it's there,” Ethan yawns, “I've had enough. I just can't stay awake any longer. I feel like my bones have been replaced with toffee and then smashed with a hammer. Would you stay with me?”  
“Yes,” Rupert murmurs.  
Ethan drags himself across the bed, and wriggles under the sheets. “Good.” A moment later, Rupert lies down next to him. That's a surprise. “Very nice.”

3.

“I think, I think he's just lonely.”  
Willow stops brushing her hair, mid-stroke. “Well, he should be lonely. He's evil.”  
Tara shakes her head. “There's more to it than that.”  
Willow puts down her hairbrush. “Well, no- he tried to kill us. A lot of times. You can't really be objective about that kind of thing. This isn't a 'see it from his perspective' kind of situation.”  
“Maybe that's true, but-”

_But what?_

“But what?”  
“The things he's been through, they've warped him.”  
“Well, good. I know that's harsh, but I'm not feeling too generous toward him.”  
“I understand. I just don't think that pretending that he's, like, a cartoon villain, and not a part of Giles' life is going to solve anything. If he's a problem, we aren't going to get anywhere by pretending he doesn't exist.”  
“We also aren't going to get anywhere by pretending that this is over, that he's learned his lesson and given up. He did something bad; he'll do something bad again. That's just the way he is.”  
“I just don't think that's all there is to him.”  
Willow shrugs, and her expression softens. “I don't want to fight over this. He's not worth it. He doesn't deserve your compassion, but I wouldn't have you any other way.” Willow puts her arms around Tara, squeezes, and kisses her shoulder. “I'd give you a real kiss, but morning breath- gross.” She raises her toothbrush. “Gonna go take care of that, and then I'll be right back.”  
Tara smiles. “Oh, you'd better.”  
“Whole lot of kissin' when I get back,” Willow says as she heads for the bathroom.  
Tara waits for a second, and then goes to the bookcase. She has to look up the number, in the little address book she keeps there, sandwiched between two textbooks. She picks up the phone and dials.  
“Maclay residence. Donny speaking.”  
“Hi. May I speak to Tara?”  
“There's nobody here by that name.”  
“Never? I heard she used to live there.”  
“Nope. Nobody by that name's ever lived here. You've got a wrong number.”  
“Thanks.”  
“No problem.”  
He hangs up before she does.

_Forgive_

Willow frowns. “Maybe you're right.” She smiles lopsidedly. “I can be a little judge-y sometimes. It can be hard to forgive bad people- especially the kind of bad people we meet. It's not like they just borrow your sweater without asking. They tend to turn all the adults in town into teenagers, so that the mayor can steal babies to feed to a big snake.”  
“You never told me about that one.”  
“I sorta just did. There wasn't much else to it.”  
“Oh. I don't think it's up to us to forgive him- or to not forgive him. I think it's up to Giles. I just don't think we should act like we made the decision for him. He shouldn't feel...” she makes a face, “ashamed, I guess. Of his past.”  
Willow shakes her head. “No. He shouldn't.”  
Tara takes a deep breath. “There's something else I need to talk to you about. I mentioned it the other day- about Dawn, Buffy's sister.”  
“Buffy's sister, who doesn't exist. Most people just stop at imaginary friends.”  
“I'm serious, Willow.”  
“Okay. I am, too. I'm being serious.”  
“In the other, I don't know, the other-”  
“Timeline?”  
Relieved, Tara smiles, “Yeah. The other timeline. Buffy had a sister. Her name was Dawn, and she wasn't real. Somebody made her, made us think that she'd always been Buffy's sister. I only found out when I went into the trance to break Ethan's spell. I've been trying to figure out why she was there, where she came from, but it's been hard, because I don't even know what I'm looking for. So, I need your help. I just didn't know how to talk about it without seeming like I was losing my mind.”  
“And you want Ethan to help you, too.”  
“Yes.” The word comes out on a sigh.  
“That's why you want to believe that he can change.”  
“Yes. But also because of what I said. I don't want Giles to feel like we're judging him, and I don't think Ethan is evil. Or all evil, anyway. I mean, who knows what we'd be like if we lost somebody we cared about- if somebody we cared about died, and the person we thought was closest to us just left?”  
Willow snorts. “Probably not the kind of people who get their jollies with murder and mayhem.”  
“Willow...”  
“Not judging. Totally not judging.”

4.

But after all of this, why has he decided to stay? He's not so good at fooling himself that he can't acknowledge that there's nothing for him here. Spike was right- and doesn't that seem like it happened a thousand years ago?- although the time at which Spike said it is still months in the future- in another future that has now been swallowed up by whatever takes dead moments, dead possibilities- Spike was right when he said that Ethan's business was concluded. He shows up, he does something naughty, and he leaves. It's his modus vivendi. If it isn't broken, don't fix it.  
But he could break it. That was what he used to like to think he did. He broke things that were useless in their intact state. That's the function of chaos: too much order, and nothing grows. Everything neat and pretty, and as good as dead. When did he begin to think that he was exempt?

_He's going to go_

He sighs, rises from the bed where it seems like he's spent so long- so long, he'd begun to weave himself into the sheets. Like stitching himself into a shroud. There's a plastic bag from the liquor store hanging from the arm of the chair; into this, he puts his dirty washing, and then shoves it into the corner of the suitcase. The clean clothes, he folds up and puts away, as well. And what else is there? He always feels as though he's brought more with him than he has. It's probably just spiritual baggage. He laughs to himself.  
He could, of course, leave without paying. No one would even remember he'd been there. There'd be nothing to prove that he had but some stained linen. He shrugs. Habits are just order on a personal scale. And he's had far too much of that.

_Of course he's going to stay_

But chaos lives in the negative space of the random, and true randomness allows for the appearance of patterns. He stands, then plunks himself back down on the bed. Long ago, he swore that it would be chaos to which he dedicated his life, but he's beginning to think that he told a lie.

5.

There's a knock at the door. He wasn't asleep, but when he starts, it still feels like he were starting awake. Who can it be?  
He could get up, but he'd really rather not. He sighs. If it's a vampire, he'll just have to live with the consequences. He calls, “It's open. Come in.”

_I don't care about romance; I just want to read more about, like, magic and stuff_

Whether it's politeness or caution that makes her hesitant, he doesn't know, but he finds it charming, all the same.  
“Ah,” he breathes, and arranges himself in a more dignified fashion.  
“Do you feel all right?” she asks.  
“Ah. Yes. Just a bit hung-over. Full of existential dread. Heartbroken. The usual.”  
Frowning, she begins to say something, but he stops her. “It's not as serious as all that. What can I do for you today?”  
Perching at the edge of the bed, she says, “It's about the spell we were talking about the other day. You remember that, right?”  
Of course not. “Vaguely. Refresh my memory.”  
“I need your help to figure out why someone would do a spell to change reality. I mean, really change it- create something from nothing; create false memories.”  
“Well,” he replies, and sits up a little higher, “if it were me, if I were casting this spell, it would probably be for the sheer fun of it. It sounds complicated, and 'complicated', even when it leads to failure, is its own reward.”  
“It's not like that. I don't think it's like that.”  
“Well, then, the only other option, to my mind, is protection. You'd change the world to protect somebody you loved, wouldn't you?”  
“Yes.” Something changes in the weather of her mind, and the alteration's negative image snakes across her face.  
“What are you thinking?”  
She looks at her hands, clasped in her lap. “Just that you changed the world for me.”  
“Oh, it still works? How nice. I didn't think the spell would remain effective. Yes. Well, I did the spell because it was in my power to do so, it cost me nothing, and I have a special place in my heart for male authority figures who abuse their power. Please don't think that there's more to it than that.”  
“No.”  
“But as I was saying, to my mind, protection, if not malice or sheer whimsy, is the only other explanation.”  
“I don't think Buffy needs protection.”  
“No? Well, perhaps it's somebody else. Somebody needs her protection. That's her stock and trade, is it not?”  
“Yeah. That's what she does.”  
He's having a memory. He closes his eyes and lets it form. Ah. “I've just remembered something- perhaps you do, as well. Was there not a woman- a woman Buffy was fighting? She appeared out of nowhere, and began,” he shakes his head absently, “attacking people, seemingly at random. I can't imagine that she isn't in some way significant. If, indeed, she even exists in this reality. She may belong solely to the other.”  
“That could happen? She could never exist- or at least never come to Sunnydale, in this reality? The spell- your spell- or my spell,” she makes a frustrated face, “or the combination of the two- or something- could change something that important?”  
“Of course it could. Everything we do sends energy into the universe, and has myriad unforeseeable consequences. Magic is a huge amount of energy- sent in one direction, to accomplish a specific task- but it's still a huge amount of energy. I'd be surprised if there were anything we hadn't managed to change, even in a very minor way.”

There are places, just as there are people, that are better than others at keeping secrets. The small town would have never done. The city is better. Here, a person can live the life they've chosen without scrutiny. When those choices are hard, painful and even humiliating, the last thing one wants is the attention of strangers. But it's also good to have friends close by- people who have also had to make hard choices.  
Faith reaches up to touch the glass, but stops short. It's not allowed. She grins.  
Angel picks up the phone on his side of the glass. “You look good, Faith.”  
“I feel,” she rolls her eyes, “Better, I guess. It's hard to describe.”  
“I think I know what you mean.”  
“Yeah. Thanks for coming. I wanted to thank you, also, for taking care of her.”  
Angel shakes his head. “You don't have to do that.”  
“I do,” Faith says, more quietly, “I- There's something I have to tell you. About Hope. Back in Sunnydale, when I was in the coma, I learned things about her. Angel- she's- she's not- there's more to her than what you can see.”  
“But she's your sister.”  
Faith closes her eyes, and nods. “She's my sister.”  
“At the end of the day, that's all that matters.”  
“I was supposed to protect her.”  
“You did. You're still protecting her. We're just helping you.”  
“I want her to visit me. Here. I just. I need time to think about some stuff. I'm not ready for her to see me like this, yet.”  
“She understands. She'll wait as long as you need her to. Just try not to make it too long. She misses you.”  
“I miss her, too.”

In the city, you're assured nothing. Save anonymity. This is true whether you're a former accountant who woke up one morning with just one set of calculations on his mind, which you spend your waking hours reciting to yourself endlessly. Or an emergency room doctor who knows more than he's saying about the sudden influx of patients experiencing psychotic episodes. Or a dying god running out of time. Or one of several practitioners of an all-but-forgotten magical path who crossed the ocean to hide something unimaginable from something unspeakable. Or a vampire slayer atoning for her sins. Or a recovering vampire, atoning for his. Or an erstwhile rogue demon hunter. Or a former socialite turned private investigator. Or a young man who lost one family, but gained another. Or a little girl named Hope Lehane who has no idea who she truly is. 

_I only care about romance_

The door creaks as it opens slowly. For a second, Ethan thinks that it actually is a vampire, and he shouldn't have been so flippant, even if it was only in his mind. But no, it's  
“Ripper.”  
“Don't call me that.”  
“Rupert. To what do I owe the pleasure?”  
“I just wanted to make sure you weren't dead,” he mutters, “after the other night. I didn't feel right staying until the morning.”  
“How very, very kind of you. How might I repay your kindness?”  
Rupert makes a disgusted sound, and turns to leave.  
“No, wait. Wait.” Ethan gets out of bed, and thankfully, Rupert's back is still turned, so he doesn't see Ethan get caught in the sheets, almost fall over, and get up gracelessly, mouthing, 'Fuck'. He stumbles over to Rupert, righting himself just as he gets to him. It's too abrupt, and it'll probably get him a slap, but he claps his hands down on Rupert's shoulders, holds him in place, even though he's stopped moving. “Don't leave. I'm glad you came here. I don't want you to go. I don't want to keep doing this. Just do something. Kiss me, or kill me, because I've run out of ideas. I don't know what to do anymore.”  
“Ethan-”  
He shakes his head. “I don't care which one. Just put me out of my misery.”  
To his credit, he doesn't flinch when Rupert fits his hand around his throat. There's no pressure, though, just warmth. Ethan tilts his head back.  
“I can't move this fast,” Rupert says.  
Ethan closes his eyes. “Fortunately, I have nothing but time.”

_Rip-off- I wanted porn_

The kiss comes suddenly. Still, it seems belated, it seems like it should have happened a thousand years ago. When it happens, he realizes that he's been aching to be touched for so long. But he'll take it, now. Better late than never.  
And Rupert- the hunger is coming off of him in waves. One kiss, and Ethan already feels half-devoured. Slowly, the rest comes into focus. Rupert has one hand around his throat, still, fingers just pushing into the skin. Tomorrow, there'll be marks. The other hand clasps his shoulder. There'll be marks, there, as well. Ethan will be written all over. In a language only he understands. He's holding tightly to Rupert, not even sure where his hands are. He's being pulled under. He's drowning. He gasps, and Rupert sucks the breath from his open mouth.  
He's on the bed, with Rupert on top of him. Somehow, his clothes got away from him. Everywhere Rupert covers him is boiling hot, and where he's uncovered, the air conditioning gores him with teeth of ice. He shivers. He must have a fever. Rupert is still fully dressed, and Ethan buries his face in Rupert's shirt, breathes in roughly, plunges his hands up the back. Now, Rupert shivers with him.  
“Your hands are like fucking icicles.”  
He mutters, “I've been very cold for a long time.”  
“Save the romantic nonsense,” Rupert says, and pulls off his shirt. Ethan digs his fingernails into Rupert's shoulders, his back. For his trouble, he gets his wrists pushed up over his head. “If you don't behave, I'll have to restrain you.”  
He laughs. The promise is good enough. “No, no. I don't think I could take it at this point. Last time, I nearly dislocated my shoulder. I'll behave.”  
“You'll behave?” Rupert releases his grip a little bit. He expression is unreadable.  
“Yes. Just don't tell anyone I've gotten so delicate in my old age.”  
“Not a soul,” Rupert says against his shoulder. His wrists are free, but Ethan leaves them where they are until the circulation starts to go, and then he lets them fall to Rupert's shoulders. He touches the places he scratched earlier- but gently. God help them both, but they may get out of this without doing serious damage to one another. When did that become attractive?  
Ethan clears his throat, but his voice still comes out hoarse. “You have to know, I don't have any condoms.”  
“I wasn't planning on getting anywhere near any orifice of yours, anyway. And certainly not letting you near any of mine.”  
“And you call me a romantic.”  
“Shut up,” Rupert exhales the words directly into his ear, and that's almost enough to end it right there, “Turn on your side.” He bites the lobe, but without real conviction, just the press of his teeth. Ethan turns, lets his head fall back, feels the rough denim of Rupert's trousers and the impossible heat of his flesh against his back, and Rupert's hands on his front, also rough and also hot. He knows it's coming, but he still makes a sound, small and surprised and humiliating, when Rupert winds his hand around his cock. Ethan pushes back against him, as though he were trying to escape, but of course, that's the last thing he wants. He wants to be held in tighter, and he gets his wish; Rupert's other hand is on his shoulder, pulling him back, pulling him in. He's being bitten and kissed and sworn at, and he's more or less just fucking Rupert's hand, now, his own hand over it, rubbing his ass against the front of Rupert's jeans, desperate for completion, but hoping that it never comes.  
When it does, he can't stop the choked, stuttering cries that come out of him. He bows his head, hisses out 'Fuck' a couple of times, throws his head back again, breathes like he'd been suffocating. And that's it. He lets his shoulders drop, and his head fall forward again. He feels wrung-out. Defeated. The breath catches in his chest, he shudders, and lets it out. He can't move; he lets himself be moved by Rupert. He closes his eyes, hears the water running in the bathroom, some other sounds he can't identify. When Rupert's been gone a few minutes, he turns around, finds him standing in the frame of the open bathroom door. Now, he's naked, like Ethan. He comes back to bed.  
Ethan lets himself be moved. He lets Rupert take him where Rupert wants to go. It's not out of indifference or even perversity, he finds, but genuine desire, that he wants to go there, as well. 

5.

Gently, he wakes up. Somehow, he feels settled, like something happened while he was asleep to sweep away all of the uncertainties. Everything that was meant to happen has happened, and anything that happens is what's supposed to happen. He opens his eyes. He wonders what today will bring.


End file.
